


Easel

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Elrond and his assistant remain at the office through a heat wave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easel

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I saw a prompt once on the hobbit kinkmeme for a university AU with Professor Elrond/Lindir, but I couldn’t find it again going back! So here you are, my headcanon after stealing that idea. (I don’t usually go for modern AU in Tolkien, but [memorywolf]() swayed me.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s the sort of blistering day that gets no better no matter how wide Elrond opens the windows of his office. He has a free-standing fan beside his desk, pointed strategically at him and away from his papers, which are held down with several paperweights around the edges just in case. He’s attempting notes on the following semester’s curriculum, but that’s proving difficult beyond just the sweltering heat. 

His young assistant, freshly graduated and calmly eager for a continued place at his side, lounges at the sidewall on the sofa. Lindir’s posture is normally immaculate, yet now he leans back in the plush cushions, long legs spread crossed and fingers idly tracing his collarbone. He holds a bundle of test papers in his lap, a red marker held between his teeth—something Elrond would sternly forbid anyone else. There are many areas where he finds himself restrained with Lindir. He can’t seem to manage ordering those plush lips to cease their delicate hold on an instrument deftly plucked from Elrond’s own desk, sure to be returned after this session. With his free hand, Lindir pops open yet another button of his white shirt. His pale fingertips smear a stray bead of sweat across his bare chest, then run back up along the supple arch of his throat. His hair, long, straight, and only a slightly brighter brown than Elrond’s own, streams creamily down his shoulders. He’s a vision of sheer _beauty_. Sometimes, when he’s lost himself enough in his work to forget Elrond’s presence, he’ll hum a few bars of song beneath his breath, and he utters a few notes now, enough to send a subtle shiver down Elrond’s spine. 

Elrond doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such a devoted assistant. To brave the heat for Elrond’s stuffy office at the university is something Elrond himself might not have done in his youth. His own sons, only a few years younger than Lindir, complained extensively about attending classes this morning, though his daughter was all too happy to go—her crush, an impressive student under Elrond’s proverbial wing, is unfailingly reliable. Lindir must have his own life—a job, other prospects, perhaps even a sweetheart—and yet he answers Elrond’s calls day or night, always ready at the slightest hint that his former professor might have need of him. 

And he’s rewarded for his efforts by melting away at Elrond’s side, marking papers that Elrond easily could’ve done himself. It doesn’t seem fair. As Lindir’s song comes to an end, he pulls the marker from his mouth, the music no longer muffled in its final notes. Lindir scribbles something on the paper in his lap, then taps the marker thoughtfully against his pert lips before glancing sideways.

His gaze falls on Elrond, and Elrond, hurriedly attempting an excuse for his staring, asks, “Is there any particular reason you have not turned on the fan, Lindir?” There’s one not far from the couch, leaning against a tall bookshelf.

Lindir bites his lower lip, a flicker of guilt crossing his eyes. He quietly admits, “I... ah, I didn’t want to cost you money on electricity, professor.”

Elrond has to work to stifle a grin at the overzealous caution of his assistant. The title is nothing new—though they’re colleagues, in a fashion, and Elrond would have them on first name terms, Lindir can’t seem to help himself from addressing Elrond formally. With his voice as soft as it always is when Lindir’s done something sweet but unnecessary, Elrond points out, “While I appreciate the thought, it will be on the school’s budget, and I won’t have you suffering from heatstroke on my account.”

Lindir’s cheeks stain a little pink. He blushes so easily, or at least, seems to around Elrond. But he nods and smiles, then stretches across the sofa to take the fan. He flicks the switch, then dials up the speed, and it casts a breeze across him that ruffles his silken hair and plays with the open flaps of his shirt. Letting out a contented sigh, Lindir settles back into position. Watching strands of dark hair play across Lindir’s flushed skin makes Elrond think, not for the first time, of crossing a line he promised he never would. It takes a great deal of effort to return to his papers. 

He tries to concentrate. He tries to get work done, but only a moment later, he hears Lindir’s fan click off. When he glances up, he finds Lindir’s hand leaving it. 

Lindir climbs gracefully off the couch, then saunters closer, his slender hips swaying with each step. He hesitates at the front of Elrond’s desk, fingers dropping to trace the mahogany surface. Then he seems to make up his mind and drifts slowly around it, until he’s right next to Elrond’s chair. He asks, gentle and tentative, “Perhaps I should go and fetch us some cold drinks? I can get anything you like, professor...”

It’s very, very difficult to maintain eye contact and not sweep over Lindir’s beautiful body, so close and more on display than ever, jeans tightly hugging his legs and shirt half-open, hair slicked about his forehead with sweat and breath coming ragged. It takes Elrond two tries to manage, “That will not be necessary. You are my teacher’s assistant, not a personal one.”

Lindir nods. The dejection flickers across his pretty face, his teeth playing with his bottom lip. His eyes fall away, and he turns as if to go, but stops again and sucks in a deep breath. Then he turns back to ask, “Perhaps you will come with me, then?”

Elrond’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His instinct is to hurry out of his chair and sweep Lindir away, but he reminds himself through the haze that it would be inappropriate. Yet he’s thought of it many, many times.

Maybe Lindir has too. It would explain a few things, like the adoration in his eyes, now and every other time he’s in Elrond’s presence. While Elrond struggles with himself, Lindir takes a step closer to Elrond’s chair, then bends, one torturous millisecond at a time, until his long hair is brushing over Elrond’s broader shoulders and his face is turning. He presses his lips to Elrond’s, feather-soft but lingering. Elrond exhales shakily and knows his resolve is breaking. 

Lindir doesn’t pull far away. His words ghost over Elrond’s lips when he murmurs, “I am sorry, Professor Peredhel. I truly am, but... it’s so _difficult_ to work in a professional capacity with a man I so greatly respect and desire, and with this heat wave and you looking so gorgeous in it, I...” 

“I will.”

Lindir’s brows knit together, and Elrond clarifies, “I will go with you for drinks.” In a heartbeat, Lindir’s _beaming_. He’s never looked so perfect.

And Elrond, for all his guilt, can’t deny that wondrous smile. It seems useless to lie to himself anymore. Lindir straightens but doesn’t retreat until Elrond’s also risen from his desk. Lindir’s the one to turn off Elrond’s fan, always doing everything for Elrond that he can.

They head for the door together, neither fetching coats, and Lindir begins a new song.


End file.
